


Lake Weed

by myrtlewilson



Series: Fragile Things [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Boys who are big of heart and dumb of ass so they don't realize they're in love, Drowning, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Monster of the Week, Pre-Slash, they're getting there though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlewilson/pseuds/myrtlewilson
Summary: So caught up in looking for Drowner brains for a potion, the Witcher doesn't notice the beasts almost upon them until it's too late.(Alternatively: Geralt of Rivia realizes he could be taking things for granted.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Fragile Things [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595119
Comments: 54
Kudos: 1582
Collections: Best Geralt





	Lake Weed

Drowners, Geralt supposed, were the most annoying nuisances on the continent. There when you never needed them, gone when your alchemaic stock was low and your potions supply lower.

“We’ve been at this for _hours_ , Geralt,” Jaskier whined, perched atop Roach with his legs crossed at the ankles like she was a throne, “don’t you think it’d be simpler just to _buy_ the brains from an herbalist? Or a mage?” He gave a lazy strum to his lute. “I’m certain the woman we met at that inn a while back could point us in the right direction.”

Geralt didn’t reply. He breathed in deep and focused his gaze out into the trees, hoping to sense something, anything. Truthfully, Jaskier was right, but damned if he’d let him know it. And saving the coin for repair or clothing seemed the better thing to do.

“Keep strumming,” Geralt said instead. The noise of the lute would scare the Drowners, yes, but it would also force them to move thus making them easier to track and catch. 

And the quicker he caught them, the quicker they all could get out of here.

Jaskier hummed an agreement sort of sound and started plucking out a tune Geralt only half-recognized. Whether it was from a new composition or one that was scrapped in favor of another set of chords, the Witcher didn’t know. But, loath he admit it, it was something lovely.

With the sun nearly level to the ground, the water puddled across the ground made everything reflect the same color. While Drowners weren’t particularly smart creatures, they could be cunning. Camouflage was their upper hand after all. 

Perhaps they recognized what Geralt was doing. Perhaps they knew that if they just stayed still, the noise of the lute wouldn’t hurt them and the passerbys would continue to do just that: pass by.

“The sun is such a lovely color this time of day, isn’t it?”

Sometimes, Jaskier spoke just to speak. It was a personality trait that took ages for Geralt to get used to, at first thinking that every time the bard opened his mouth he expected an answer. But the longer they traveled together, the more he realized that sometimes Jaskier just... made noise. Song noises, talking noises, frustrated noises, hungry noises.

It seemed he could control it about as well as he could stop breathing. And what started as an irritant soon grew into something, well — less irritating. Not completely pleasant but certainly better than nothing at all, or worse yet, the screams of beasties in the night.

Jaskier sighed. “Do you ever wish you did something else in life?”

“No.”

“Sincerely?” He peered down at Geralt from between Roach’s ears, resting his chin softly on the fuzz of her head. “I think, if things were different, I’d have liked to study as a painter. Or, perhaps a smithee.”

Geralt snorted, snatching a yellow flower off a bush. When he realized it wasn’t Celandine he tossed it back to the ground again. 

“And what’s so funny about that, sir Witcher?”

“Too dainty to be a smith.”

“Am not!” Though Jaskier sounded affronted, Geralt knew he was anything but. “You don’t have to be a hulking brute just to be good at the craft. It just so happens that those men are, after years of work. I could get like that, you know.”

“You?”

“Yes, me. _Brute_. I can craft songs — how different could it be to craft blades?”

“Very much so. And I thought I told you to keep strumming, or we really will be here all night.”

Jaskier puffed out his chest with a frown, mumbling “that was a rhetorical question,” but nevertheless followed Geralt’s orders. 

“ _We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone… For the age of oppression is now nearly done._ ” It seems he didn’t fully know the tune he was plucking, though, for after the first two lines Jaskier’s soft singing gave way to even softer humming.

Geralt focused out into the trees, ears listening for rustling not made by Roach. The horse beside him gave a nervous nicker. Drowners would have to be close by now. With the sun low in the sky and the thickness of the bog-trees, this was perfect hunting grounds for them.

Grabbing the horse by her reins, he steered Roach and the bard closer to where the swampy muck met the nearby lakeshore. If he didn’t come back with Drowner brain tonight, gods help his patience for the next several days.

“Maybe there are no Drowners in this area, hm? Maybe they all... packed up and left.”

“They’re water creatures,” Gerald grunted. “There’s the water.” He pointed to the river. “Where else would they be?”

“Other waters, perhaps? I know you believe them to be dumb pests, but even the dumbest of beasts have some form of a survival instinct. We’ve been plodding around like bulls all afternoon. Maybe they’ve left for deeper waters, hoping we’ll leave too.”

That was another thing he’d grown to learn since traveling with the bard — that Jaskier could be quite smart and intuitive when needed. Yet knowing that, it made it all the more irksome when he decided to act like a child anyways.

But, it seemed, the bard was right — at least in this moment. After hours of walking without even the smallest whiff of Drowners, it seemed a fool’s errand to continue for the night, only inviting out more fearsome creatures that Geralt couldn’t hope to best while keeping an eye on both Roach and Jaskier.

“You might be... right,” said Geralt, not bothering to look the bard’s way, lest he saw the grin of gloating on his face. “We can turn back once the sun goes over the horizon.”

That gave them another half hour of searching, at most. 

“I’m sorry,” the smile in Jaskier’s voice was audible, “did you happen to say I was right, dear Witcher? Couldn’t quite hear you over the din of my lovely lute, you see.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. A huff of breath that could have been mistaken for a laugh left his lips. Leave it to Jaskier to make even the simplest of comments a cause for praise and attention. It crossed Geralt’s mind, and not for the first time, that perhaps the bard grew up in the middle of many siblings and wasn’t hugged enough as a babe. 

It would explain the constant loudness and need for praise.

Jaskier took up his strumming again, not pushing the comment further but smile still present on his face. This time around, rather than songs, it was a series of scales and exercises Geralt often heard him play before taking the stage for the night and earning their keep. Jaskier’s eyes fell closed as he let muscle memory guide him.

Geralt pulled his eyes from the landscape to watch as the bard’s fingers danced up and down the neck of his instrument. Though he wouldn’t tell Jaskier, Geralt had been mildly impressed with the bard’s commitment to his craft since they met at the pub near the edge of the world. He had a flair for the dramatics and a brain for poetry that lent itself well to what he did as an entertainer.

Geralt found himself walking almost in time to the looped rhythm as he continued to stare at the peaceful man atop his horse. Dare he say it, think it, believe it, the scene felt almost quaint. He felt the tension loosen, just slightly, from his shoulders as Jaskier’s scales gave way to a childish tune he’d heard from long ago, before even Kahr Morhen. It was one of those songs that every child simply grew up knowing. 

Jaskier opened his eyes to catch Geralt staring, nose wrinkling as his smile grew wider, showing teeth. Almost abashed, the Witcher looked away.

Which is, of course, when hell would break loose. It always did.

In hindsight, Geralt would blame Jaskier as being a distraction, but really, the only person to blame was himself. So caught up in the melodies his bard spun, Geralt hadn’t noticed the Drowners crawling on their bellies among the thigh-high reeds until --

“Geralt!” Jasier cried, song cutting with an out-of-tune strum, “watch out!”

Several things seemed to happen all at once that even his heightened Witcher senses couldn’t fully keep track of. First came the wild dogs, which he hadn’t even thought to listen for. Perhaps it was his own foolishness to think they wouldn’t progress this deep into the swamp. More likely it was his own overconfidence, which sometimes got the better of him, that made Geralt believe the wolves in these parts weren’t hungry enough to attack.

There were other, less powerful creatures that mucked about. Easy pickings for dogs around these parts. Add in the chance that most common folk who came out this way were more than likely not to come back, and you had plausible reason to believe the beasts ‘round this way wouldn’t hunt but bide their time. 

Roach, however, was positively a banquet for any animals with fangs and claws. Most horses were. Bringing her out this deep, no matter his intentions, was no better than fishing with worms.

_Should have known better_ , Geralt thought to himself, _fucking should have known_.

He drew the silver sword from his back, knowing it wasn’t necessary for the dogs, but careful even so about what other monsters their howls and spilled blood could attract. He lunged at the closest of the five, ignoring Roach’s panicked whinnies of fear and Jaskier’s equally as high-pitched attempts at soothing her. 

It was for naught. 

No sooner had Geralt beheaded the first hound did Roach rear to her hind legs in fear, dumping Jaskier into the mud and reeds with a yelp. Somehow, he had managed to keep the lute from breaking in the fall, having held it up with one hand so that the bottom of the instrument could be seen above the weeds. 

It was enough of a way point in the dying sunlight for Geralt to find him. He took several steps back before lunging forward again, landing a few quick slashes to the nearest dog. Roach, even in her fear, kicked another in the head and sent it flying into the brush.

Two to go. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt yelled, lunging for the nearest of the dogs, “grab Roach. Get her out of here.”

“I-,”

He didn’t wait for the full response, instead whirling to dodge the snarl of claws and wet fur which flew by him. Casting Igni with all this swamp gas around was too much of a risk, though it would get the job done. Instead, he threw up the sign for Aard and watched as the final two mutts were blasted back. 

Their fading yelps let him know they’d turn tail, rather than fight. Good enough, Geralt knew, but only as long as they didn’t come back. 

He turned to Roach, only to find her without Jaskier. Something thumped in Geralt’s chest. He sniffed the air, cursing as he identified the stench of fear and fish. _Not fish. Drowners_. Honing his Witcher senses, Geralt could all but physically see the path Jaskier left behind as he was drug from the spot which he fell.

“Fuck,” said Geralt through gritted teeth.

It lead to the nearby banks and into the water. Even non-magical beings could tell by the drag of heels in the sand what had happened here. Something bad. Something deadly, even. Geralt didn’t bother to strip off his boots before jumping in, not registering the frigid temperature of the river as he waded deeper before diving under.

Were it any other human, the visibility in the water would be too low to make anything out and he’d be better off building Jaskier a funeral pyre than trying to save him. But as it were, Geralt could dimly make out the struggling shape of the bard, wriggling with all his water-logged might against the grip of the two Drowners on either side of him.

But his energy was fading, and Geralt didn’t need Witcher senses to tell that. He swam deeper, crossing himself with the sign of Quen for protection. His movement, or maybe his audacity, drew the Drowners’ attention to him in an instant. They let Jaskier go, perhaps at the prospect of a meatier meal.

As the beasts swam closer, Geralt watched behind them as Jaskier struggled for the surface. Confident the bard could break for air, he turned and swam back to shore, baiting the Drowners to come follow. One touched his leg and shrieked in pain as the shield rippled back against the press of its claws.

_Serves that little bastard right_ , thought Geralt. 

His hands gripped the sand of the shallows and he launched himself back onto land, grabbing for his silver sword and using the force of his spinning body to embed the blade firmly in the first crested Drowner’s neck. It burbled weakly as it fell, the second one going down just as fast as the first when the tip of Geralt’s sword ran through its eye.

It was quiet again. Geralt heaved in a gasp of air, scanning the water for where Jaskier should have been, but wasn’t. He called for the bard and only heard his own voice echo back in answer.

Another curse brimmed at his lips but was silenced by a deep breath as Geralt dove back into the water. Instead of going down he swam out, back to whereabouts Jaskier would have reached the surface. Each stroke taken further out into the river had Geralt’s pulse thrum with something just shy of worry. 

Jaskier was human. And humans, whether they chose to accept it or not, were so _fragile_.

_He knew the risks, knew there’d_ **_be_ ** _risks_ , one side of him whispered, while the other whispered back, _yes, but he knew you’d be there to protect him_ . _And you weren’t. So, whose fault is it really?_

Well. That was something to work out later — much later, when the stakes weren’t as high.

It was by sheer luck he found the bard, head just barely floating above the water as he lay buoyant on his back. Again, his eyes were closed, but this time he looked much less peaceful and much more... Geralt shook his head, trying not to focus on the blue of Jaskier’s lips as he shouldered the other man on his back. 

The final return to shore wasn’t as quick as the first time, but just as detrimental. As soon as his feet hit the sand, Geralt rolled Jaskier off his back, careful to mind the back of his head so it didn’t smack against the hard ground. He held a hand over the bard’s mouth and nose to feel for breathing, lips thinning as he found none.

Geralt turned Jaskier to the side and thumped him on the back, once, then twice with an open palm, hoping to dislodge the water stuck in his lungs. Nothing. The other man didn’t even so much as flinch at the hits.

He recalled the breathing technique Vesemir had taught him during aid training that involved breathing into the person’s mouth and pumping where their lungs would be. It was worth a shot, he supposed. Geralt placed his mouth over Jaskier’s and breathed out before pulling away and pushing at the bard’s chest. 

It was almost like kissing. 

“C’mon,” he whispered as he worked, “breath, damn it!”

Geralt leaned in again, slotting his mouth over Jaskier’s, whose lips hadn’t regained their warmth and tasted vaguely of lake weed. Or the salty brine Drowners seemed to have, despite their freshwater dwellings. Anger lurched in Geralt’s belly as he breathed out again, trying once more to resuscitate Jaskier. 

As he worked, Geralt found himself thinking of a world where he’d hear Jaskier’s songs, but not his singing. That he’d hear a lute, but not find him playing it. What would that be like? That reality was always going to happen — but happen now?

It spurred him to push and push and push, trying to wake the bard but —

but nothing. 

Jaskier lay still in the sand as if sleeping. One arm had even crossed his belly, giving the illusion he was at peace. An illusion, as the red-going-purple marks around his throat, clearly in the shape of webbed hands, said otherwise. 

_Not this way_ , Geralt thought. _Not here and not now._

This was no way for someone to go out, and especially not someone of Jaskier’s caliber. Not someone like him, who had, though afraid, fearlessly followed Geralt into peril at every turn. Who had befriended — yes, befriended — someone like he; the Butcher of Blaviken. The feared White Wolf.

As the sun dipped beneath the horizon, an inkling of a thought in the back of Geralt’s mind feared it might be a lost cause. 

_Until._

One forceful push spluttered a wet cough out of Jaskier. Geralt turned him on his side just in time for the bard to vomit out a mouthful of water directly into the sand between Geralt’s legs . 

“‘m sorry,” Jaskier wheezed through coughs, disoriented. Another roll of his stomach sent up not just water, but that afternoon’s roast rabbit stew as well. “Fuck. I’m — _shit_ , so sorry.”

Geralt did his best to sweep Jaskier’s wet mop of hair out of his eyes, making no noise as the rest of the river water emptied itself from the bard’s belly. Simply hearing him apologize, wheeze, make _noise_ \-- Geralt never thought he’d be so thankful for the noises, despite its gross origin and horrible cause.

Jaskier coughed for a moment longer though nothing came up. He rested his head on Geralt’s soaked thigh, panting like he’d run the length between White Orchard and Vizima without stopping.

Through chattering teeth and trembling lips, Jaskier finally spoke: “Where’s my lute?”

“You almost just drown and _that’s_ what you’re worried about?” If it were a lighter moment, Geralt could have laughed. “Jaskier. You could have _died_.”

There was something about this boy, this man, that Geralt would never comprehend. Whether it was a death wish or overconfidence — something was there. 

It was just out of Geralt’s reach, though. 

“Could have,” Jaskier grinned, “but didn’t. Y’saved me. Now I have something to save as well.”

Struggling into an upright standing position, stopping only for a moment to breath and get his bearings, Jaskier looked to Geralt expectantly. 

“Well, whaddya think? Want to use your,” he waggled his fingers like casting a spell, “Witcher powers to help make this go a lot faster? It is actually _extraordinarily_ freezing out here-,”

“-because we’re soaked-,”

“-and _yes_ , that reminds me, we are absolutely staying in an inn tonight.” Jaskier started in the direction of where Roach stood, not far from where she initially bucked him, striding along on wobbling legs. “I don’t care if I completely pay for the damn thing I will _not_ hear of sleeping on the grounds where I almost perished and, really, when you think about it, Roach probably deserves a good safe night in, don't you think? Poor girl was probably petrified.”

“She’s faced worse.”

Jaskier shot him a look before returning to scan through the weeds. He was shivering, Geralt noticed.

“Doesn’t mean she liked it though. And, not to mention, we _both_ smell like fish and reeds which I can only imagine will get worse in the sun, so a good bath is definitely — ah _ha!_ Found you!” He hoisted the lute up to his face, nuzzling it like a kitten despite its grimey new coating. “No thanks to that mean old Witcher, that is.”

“Maybe that _mean old Witcher_ should have left you in the river to become Drowner food then?” Geralt hummed. 

Again, the bard pulled a face. 

“Be honest, Geralt. Would you have?”

Of course the answer was no, but he’d be damned if he were baited into saying it. As Jaskier made his way over, even in the newly dawning moonlight, Geralt could already make out the healthy flush returning around his lips and eyes.

“Make my days a lot more quiet,” he said instead, making his way toward Roach to check the security of her saddle. 

“Boring, you mean.”

Rather than answer, he gestured for Jaskier to hop on. When the bard looked confused, Geralt amended: “It's the fastest way back to warmth and an inn. Unless you want to be left —,”

Jaskier scrambled up behind the saddle without further comment.

* * *

Later that night, when they’d finally secured and inn with two beds, fire only lit by it’s still dying embers, Jaskier spoke.

It wasn’t the speaking that was unusual but his tone. The seriousness. 

“I do want to thank you, you know,” he said, voice thick with sleep, “for saving my life. You’re right. I would have died if it wasn’t for you.”

Geralt nodded. Then he realized Jaskier probably couldn’t see that. 

“Anyone would have done it.”

“But you’re not just _anyone_ , Geralt of Rivea.”

The way Jaskier said his name, it was different from the way other people did. It was a prayer, rather than a curse. The only other person who had done that before was Yennefer, and only when the mood was right. Only when it suited her. Jaskier said it like that all the time, and not anger no tiredness nor a near-death experience could stop him.

Geralt tried to ask the bard what that meant, but only the soft and even breathing of deep sleep answered his question. He too fell under, not soon after, lulled by the warmth of the room and the safety that it brought, listening to his bard breath like it was a tune any royal would waltz to.

When he dreamed that night, of plush lips and a swirl of dark hair, Geralt tasted brine and felt the firm press of hands to the side of his head. Not caging, but comforting. While he’d met a mermaid before, this wasn’t it. This was something different entirely.

Or, perhaps, it was nothing. 

Perhaps it was a sign that a visit to a brothel was in order, that they’d been on the road for just a hair too long.

Upon awakening, Jaskier was still there — still asleep and still breathing — in his own cot on the other side of the room. And Geralt laid on his back, staring at the wood paneling of the ceiling, as if it would know when this little bard had become so important in the journey of the great White Wolf.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, it won't end there! I ended up absolutely falling in love with the television show, but having played a bit of the games and read Blood of Elves, I'm hoping to combine the three while developing their characters -- which might make show!Geralt seem a little OOC, but we gotta give the man a personality at some point, outside of just grunting and fucking. 
> 
> As for the fic, without giving too much away, I plan to have it be a series where, overtime, Geralt comes to realize and accept his feelings for Dandelion -- so more soon! I have several other things planned out, but if you'd ever like to leave a request, you can find me on Tumblr @[myrtlewilson](http://myrtlewilson.tumblr.com).


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